


Don't Become Some Background Noise

by anomalousity



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 19:41:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2162721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomalousity/pseuds/anomalousity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This guy can’t actually be serious.</p><p>Enjolras watches the man tap his foot to the beat of ‘Aint No Mountain High Enough’, his head bobbing along with the beat as he sings along, poorly, with Marvin Gaye’s frankly excellent vocals. The blaring headphones would be bad enough; hell, even Enjolras considers himself a fan of classic music but there’s a limit, dammit.</p><p>But this guy… Not only is he listening to it loudly but he’s singing along, equally as loudly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Become Some Background Noise

**Author's Note:**

> Stole from Queen's Radio Ga Ga, because I'm not creative enough for titles.
> 
> Yell at me on [tumblr](http://buckybaarnes.co.vu).

This guy can’t actually be serious.

Enjolras watches the man tap his foot to the beat of ‘Aint No Mountain High Enough’, his head bobbing along with the beat as he sings along, poorly, with Marvin Gaye’s frankly excellent vocals. The blaring headphones would be bad enough; hell, even Enjolras considers himself a fan of classic music but there’s a limit, dammit.

But this guy… Not only is he listening to it loudly but he’s singing along, equally as loudly.

He deftly refuses to think that he has a nice voice, high tenor and designed for Broadway musical. But you can’t sing along to R&B like that it should be illegal. Enjolras tries everything he can; pointed looks, half-growled attempts at clearing his throat, eye rolls directed to the man. Nothing gets through.

Then the smell of wine hits him when the man turns his face Enjolras’ way, lips moving around the words expertly even as the song streamlines into Andy Gibb’s ‘I Just Want To Be Your Everything’. Perhaps he has decent taste in music, but he certainly doesn’t understand basic etiquette.

Finally, when his annoyance is bridging unhealthy levels, Enjolras scoots over a seat to knock the guy’s shoulder with his own, to tell him to shut up or he’ll… well, he’ll do something, that’s for sure.

“Hey,” he says, nudging against the guy. “Hey, could you shut up-”

The guy turns his wide blue eyes on him, a salacious smirk curling at the corners of his lips before the light pink of a tongue peeks out to swipe over his lower lip. He rubs his chin with his other hand, eyes darting down Enjolras’ body like he’s checking him out before he turns his head and shrugs, starting to hum instead of sing.

Fucking asshole, Enjolras thinks.

Three more stops and it’s just Enjolras, the guy, and one snoozing old woman left on the train. When the guy notices, he gives Enjolras a solute and starts the first few bars of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ and there goes the last of Enjolras’ truly saintly patience.

“Seriously?” he asks, giving the guy his best glare. “You’re going to butcher _Bohemian Rhapsody_ now too? What, you have a personal vendetta against all the greats? Practicing your freedoms in the most cringe worthy fashions?” He tosses his arms up in the air before pulling his backpack off his shoulders and slumping into his seat. Enjolras hasn’t done anything to deserve this, of all things.

“Mama,” the guy says, leaning across the empty seat between them.

Enjolras covers his ears. “Stop.”

“Just killed a maaaaaaaan.” Ugh, this song was not meant for guys with horrible, teasing accents.

“Please.”

“Put my gun against his head,” the guy murmurs, before a hand wraps around Enjolras’ wrist and tugs his hand from his ear. “C’mon, you know you want to sing.”

“No, that would be stupid,” Enjolras bites back. Except… it is one of his favorites. But it’s a disservice to Freddie Mercury to give into this asshole, so Enjolras sticks to his guns and shakes his head. “And I don’t want to be stupid like you.”

Then, he blushes when the guy raises his eyebrows, mouth opening in mock shock. “Jeez, guy,” he says, voice childish and high. “And here I was hoping you’d let me use your crayons.”

And then he blushes harder because he _totally_ sounded like a first grader. Dammit, the guy is full on grinning, shifting his body fully into the seat right beside Enjolras’ and jiggling his leg up and down as he taps out the beat emanating from his raucous headphones.

Truly, if it were anyone else, Enjolras wouldn’t be so bothered. He’s sat by people who sang under their breath, bumped shoulders with complete strangers, had conversations with working women taking the E-train home. He’s not prudish, despite popular believe, just selective.

And it seems like this guy is turning that ideology on its head.

“Hey, c’mon it’s getting to the good part,” he says, lifting his headphones from his head and, before Enjolras can do anything about it, settles them on his head. He mouths something Enjolras can’t quite catch and relaxes into his seat with a lazy smile.

Maybe… maybe he can stand to listen.

The Queen would’ve been excusable, because who in their right mind doesn’t like Queen? Assholes, that’s who. But Enjolras isn’t an asshole so he listens through ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ and into ‘Radio Ga Ga’ and ‘Fat Bottom Girls’. He even keeps them on when the track changes to some Ingrid Michaelson tune.

The guy notices too, if his tiny smile is anything to go by. But Enjolras chooses to ignore it and tap his foot in time with the strums of the guitar, hums along with the high voice singing about buying a house in France, about living on the beach and getting rich on love. He smiles to himself when it flows into a Strokes song about blow jobs, because how damn fitting is that.

It’s only when the guy’s hands are on his face that he realizes what’s happening, and he instinctively leans into his touch. But the guy just pulls off the headphones and offers him a small, apologetic smile. “This is my stop,” he says. Then, he tilts his head and runs his fingers through his hair. “I come home at the same time all week, by the way.”

Enjolras just stares at him bemusedly even as he blushes. The guy looks completely out of his wits, and frankly, Enjolras thinks he is too. Why is he telling him when he catches the train? Is he looking to get mugged?

“I’m Grantaire,” he murmurs, pulling Enjolras out of his thoughts. When he blinks, he sees a thin, pale hand extended in front of him.

He takes it, and squeezes. “I’m Enjolras,” he replies. “And I usually drive, but I can probably catch the train tomorrow.” And the next day, and maybe even the day after.

It’s worth it when he says it, even if he’s blushing something awful, because Grantaire breaks into this wide, pretty smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes.

“I’ll see you then,” he murmurs, before stepping off.

And Enjolras can admit that he was dazedly staring after him, thinking about his smile, because it took him another five minutes to realize that he was supposed to get off two stops earlier.


End file.
